


snowflakes in the honey-drenched breeze

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, Renee Lives, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: After the war, Gene can't stand to stay in one place, and Renée can't stand Belgium in the winter. Maybe it's destiny that they find each other again.
Relationships: Renee LeMaire/Eugene Roe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	snowflakes in the honey-drenched breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> lowkey 90% of this is just me being in love with renée lemaire

After the war — after Bastogne — Eugene would be happy to never see another snowfall. **  
**

Thankfully, in Bayou Chene, a dozen things are more likely to fall out of the sky, starting with rain and ending with a hail of frogs. No snow down here to force a chill into your bones, even in the chilliest months. Nothing freezes down here — so he tells Renée, handing her a glass of lemonade with an apologetic wince. The sorry excuses for ice cubes clink in the glass, dancing in the pink liquid. If Renée minds, she doesn’t say a word. Instead, the corners of her lips tug back in a muted smile, and she pulls the drink close to her chest.

“It is beautiful,” she declares, for the fifth time since getting here. “Such a beautiful place.”

Bastogne must be beautiful too, at the right time of year. In her letters, Renée described the forests in full bloom, a canopy of green and gold stretching high into the air. She and her sisters used to have picnics there, eating cakes from the local bakery and picking wildflowers to bring home to their mother. The way she wrote, Gene could almost see it; his memories of the forest are nothing like the fairytale playground Renée once knew, but it’s nice to imagine it a different way. In another time, another world, he thinks, things could have been different.

In another world, Renée wouldn’t have been driven to run as soon as the weather turned cold, fleeing across an entire ocean just to escape Belgium’s chill. Gene wouldn’t have received warning just two days before she arrived, and been left to scramble to make things hospitable. They wouldn’t both greet each other at the train station for the first time in a year, awkward in spite of the letters they’ve been exchanging through the war and its end.

Then again, in another life, Gene might’ve never met Renée at all. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting here with her now, watching the Louisiana air turn her cheeks pink, or summon droplets of sweat to her brow.

Her hair is curled in a style he recognizes, but has never seen on her; she has it done up in pins instead of a scarf now. Even weeks of travel couldn’t ruffle her. This was the same woman who held steady as the town around her was being shelled to hell and back; of course she wouldn’t be daunted by a long journey. Renée shines brighter now than he ever remembers before, even when she was a glowing light in the pitch darkness of Bastogne. Her eyes are more animated than they used to be. Her smile isn’t so tired at the edges. She doesn’t wear grief like a familiar shawl, separating her from the rest of the world. 

Actually, she’s wearing lipstick.

In a lot of ways, Gene is sitting across from a stranger. He’s never seen this woman before, not without blood under her fingernails and exhaustion shadowing her face. Even so, it feels like he’s known Renée forever.

“Your home is beautiful,” Renée declares, breaking the comfortable silence between them. When she glances over her shoulder, her curls bounce. “When you described it to me, I didn’t imagine somewhere so...”

“Small?” Gene tries. 

The corners or her mouth twitch. “Cozy.”

It’s a small house on the edge of the bayou, not too far from his family home... but far enough to give Gene the space he needs. Moving back in with the family was good for a few weeks... then it slowly became unbearable. He couldn’t handle his mother’s pity, his siblings well-meaning questions, his father’s understanding — that was the worst part, because Papa survived his own war. Of course he knows. But he _doesn’t_ at the same time, because he didn’t live Normandy or Bastogne... and no one who wasn’t there can ever truly understand.

As the curtain between lived and unlived, memories and reality, grew more transparent with each passing day, Gene was seized with his own urge to run. He found an old house half-collapsing into the bayou, and bought it cheap with the promise of fixing it up. He’s always been good with his hands, after all... and having a project to focus on helped the open wounds scar over, much as putting distance between himself and anyone who wanted to poke at them did.

Gene’s house is comfortable and private, but definitely ain’t charming. If she wanted, Renée could easily find a better hotel in town. When Gene suggested it, she turned her nose up at the idea.

“Why would I do that when I’ve come here to see you? To stay with you?” she demanded. In the middle of the Lafayette train station, they drew looks from curious passersby— either at Renée’s shocked voice or her pristine European French. When she realized that he wasn’t joking, the surprise faded from her face, replaced by fond exasperation. “You mustn’t be silly, Eugene. After all you’ve written about your house, would you really not let me see it?”

As Gene’s Maman would say, he made his own bed. Now, he’s got to lie on the floor, because Renée’s the guest, and _she_ gets the only bed in the house.

None of that seems to matter now, though, with the bayou’s nightlife slowly stirring awake around them. To Gene, the symphony is familiar as an old friend; he could time his pulse with the bugs’ chirping, and the soft sounds of water rippling a ways away barely register as background noise. To Renée, though, it’s all new. He watches her drink it all in, blue eyes wide; one hand braces on the wooden porch rail as she leans forward in her seat, nearly spilling her drink. She peers into the darkening forests around them, as though trying to make out the source of each noise and rustle. Gene knows better — for his own piece of mind — but Renée doesn’t think like a native. To her, Gene’s world is foreign, maybe a little frightening… but nothing about the brightness in her eyes, or the soft huff of laughter on her lips, suggests she’s daunted.

“It must be so difficult to feel alone here,” she declares after a long silence. “The world is alive here. As though… it knows you, and wants to keep you company.”

The Bois Jacques’ deathly silence still rings in Gene’s ears. He’ll take the bayou’s racket any day.

“Knows you too,” he says, deciding to humor her. “Or wants to know you, at least. Think the crickets are putting on a special show tonight, just cause you’re here.”

Renée laughs, soft and bright. Her eyes flutter shut, head dipping. In the dimming light, she still manages to glow like a firefly. Gene couldn't look away if he tried.

“It’s so beautiful,” she declares again, slumping back in her seat. While not a man to turn down a compliment to his home any day, this is the sixth time Renée’s said it. The Bayou’s beautiful in its own way, sure... but Gene can’t help wondering if she’s really talking about it.

“Can I ask you—” he starts, cutting off when she turns to look at him. The words die in his throat. She’s happier than he’s ever seen her. To take that smile from her lips, that brightness from her eyes, might kill him.

Renée notices his hesitation, of course. “Anything,” she says softly, coral lips caressing the word. Gene swallows past a dry throat.

“Can I ask... why you came all this way?” Before she can answer, he rushes on. “There’s a thousand warmer places closer to home. Why here?” 

To his relief, Renée’s light doesn’t dim. She keeps her gaze trained on him, weighing the question for a long moment. Her fingers graze the hem of her skirt, making the fabric ripple. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, Gene fights the irrational urge to take her hand.

“You’re here,” she finally says, and turns back to the bayou.

As though it’s really that simple. Gene can’t think past it. For a moment, it’s hard to even breathe. _Why me?_ he wants to ask. _Why, out of everyone else on earth, everyone else who can’t help loving you? Why’d you come across the ocean just to visit me?_

Sitting still is more than he can bear. Gene springs to his feet, turning to the open doorway. A heavy mosquito net blocks the inside from the out, but the screen will let sound through. That’s his only thought as he slips inside, fumbling for the cheap radio on his hall table. Fill the silence somehow, some way. 

A melody fills the hall — something with plenty of strings, and a woman crooning in a velvety mezzo tone. Some love song or other. Gene’s never paid much attention to them before, not enough to name this one offhand, but something about the longing in this woman’s voice gives him pause before he can flick the dial to something different. 

When he turns back around, Renée is watching him. She’s swiveled, arm braced against the back of Gene’s deck chair; a smile plays on her lips. “Music, too?”

“You didn’t want the hotel,” Gene replies. “Might as well give you the whole hotel experience.”

“Will you have waiters serving champagne next? Or a chandelier put up in your living room?”

“I think the hotels in Lafayette are a lot different than where you come from.”

She’s on the verge of laughing as she rises from her seat. Renée pauses in the doorway, watching him with those kind, clever eyes. Against the twilight, she cuts a dark silhouette, fading at the edges like something out of a dream. When she steps forward, Gene doesn’t know what to expect.

“Dance with me,” she says, reaching for his hand.

The words reverberate in Gene’s head. They bounce off the sides like a bullet in a steel drum, from French to English and back again, as though a different language will make them make more sense. _Danse avec moi._ Can he? _Should_ he?

The choice isn’t left up to him. Renée’s hand catches his, fingers lacing together… and some instinct Gene didn’t even know he had stirs to life. His hand finds her waist, gently pulling her closer; their feet fall into rhythm, not daring tread upon each other, as they begin to gently sway to the rhythm. 

No one in their right mind would call Eugene Roe a dancer. It’s not his first time dancing with a woman… but never alone, never in the middle of his own foyer.

He knows where all the creaky floorboards are, knows the part of the carpet that’s always rumpled and easy to trip over. These dangers, he guides Renée smoothly past. It’s more than he could do for her in Bastogne. There, they could only press light bandages of sympathy over each others’ wounds, stemming the blood flow for a short time. Here — in Gene’s home, with the air sweet on their tongues and warm against their skin — he can do so much more. He can look after her, keep her safe from that chill… and as Gene’s head lowers, enough for his temple to brush against Renée’s own, it’s all he wants to do.

“Eugene…” She murmurs his name like a prayer. He exhales against her neck, ruffling the golden hairs settled there. Renée shudders in his arms, as though she’s caught an old chill, and Eugene unconsciously pulls her closer.

“I am so happy,” she whispers. “Being here with you… it is like remembering how to breathe again. Since the war’s end…”

Her hand has found a place on the back of his neck, fingers playing with his collar. Every so often, they tease the side of Gene’s jaw, and his nerves spark and shiver. “It’s like trying to relearn something that used to come easy,” he affirms, for he understands — he’s felt it too. “Like there’s a weight on your chest, and it’ll crush you if you let it…”

“But it’s gone now,” she sighs. “For the first time, it’s gone. I can breathe.”

Gene inhales, and all he tastes is her. Renée’s perfume, Renée’s presence — like lavender in the summer, sweet and soothing. When she lowers her head against his shoulder, he feels each breath exhaled against him. They continue to sway in the middle of Gene’s foyer; their shadows, backlit against the fading twilight, look like a single being, instead of two people joined together. I could stay like this forever, Agnew realizes, an odd thrill coursing through his veins. It’s the first time he’s felt like this since the war, and maybe before it too — the first time he’s ever understood what peace means, and how precious it is to have and hold. He never wants to let it go.

He never wants to let _her_ go. To lose her now… after everything… _dieu au-dessus_ , he couldn’t stand it.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against her ear. Renée shifts against him, pulling back just enough to regard him quizzically. The word is her own, but Gene certainly isn't echoing it now in regards to his own home.

“What is?” 

A smile tugs at Gene’s lips. Renée catches it, and understanding dawns across her face... followed by a grin that lights up the room, warming Gene up from the inside out.

“You have a beautiful soul, Eugene Roe.”

“You—“ He cuts himself off, a blush taking over his cheeks — not helped by the way Renée’s grin grows. Never before has he wanted to say so many things, or had so few words to say them. Every emotion trapped within his chest flutters like a mercurial thing, flickering between one state of existence and another. If he could put voice to at least _one_ of them, all the rest would surely come… like a flood, rushing out with no hope of stopping the flow. The idea terrifies him.

Instead, Gene only exhales and shakes his head, his own grin tugging at his lips. “I’m happy you’re here,” he says. “Happier than I’ve been… for as long as I can remember.”

When Renée leans in, it’s easier than dancing, easier than breathing. Her soft sigh rings in his ears, even as their lips find each other. Gene’s heart picks up a new rhythm in his chest.

Some churning emotion turns to stone inside of him. Finally, it’s tangible. He can feel it. He knows it, as well as he knows the back of his own hand, or the taste of Renée’s mouth.

_Beautiful,_ he thinks. _Yeah, sure is._


End file.
